


The Next Chapter

by sparky955



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparky955/pseuds/sparky955
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lived, they loved, they retired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Chapter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elise_Madrid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elise_Madrid/gifts).



> For Elise Madrid, with thanks for the pleasure your MFU stories have given me

I survived growing up in an occupied country during World War Two.

I survived serving in the Navy, the GRU and the KGB.

I survived three months at Hotel Cutter.

I survived Mother Fear and Doctor Egret and Gervaise Ravel and Angelique.

However.

I do not think I will survive my retirement.

Because, Napoleon is also retired.

During our decades at The Command, we never gave much thought to retirement. Somehow, missing the bullets that were aimed at us and defusing the bombs that often we were sitting on and saving the world _One More Time_ always seemed to require the majority of our concentration during our waking hours. And when we could sleep, well, we learned to not dream. Our lives conditioned us to living in the moment every moment and to not ask for a tomorrow.

So, when Napoleon turned forty and assumed his Prince of Wales’ heir apparent position in Section One, we were each shocked to realize we had lived that long. Ten months later, when I turned forty, I was delightedly shocked to be offered the position of Head of Security. Four months after that, Alexander died in his sleep, I hope, with the peace of knowing that we would nurture his dream.

There were times that I would have preferred to be back out there dodging bullets and disarming bombs rather than have the delight of preventing the early demise of the newest Number One, Section One, New York. Let us say, Napoleon did not accept the security constraints of his position with the wry and easy grace of Alexander Waverly. In short, keeping Napoleon behind a desk and out of the field was akin to herding blind, hyperactive sheep. I had difficulty helping him learn that the meaning of the verb _delegate_ was not _jump out there and do everything yourself_.

However, I became The Good Shepherd and kept my recalcitrant _ovis aries_ alive long enough to make his mark upon The Command and become as much of a legend as Alexander was.

And, the years passed.

Until one day, we looked at each other and remembered that one of the definitions of style was always knowing when to leave the party. It’s not that we were _old_ , but more that there were younger people to whom we had taught all of our skills and talents and magics, and that it was their time to lead.

That brings me to an oceanfront house on Bear Island, Maine and the man whom I have loved for more than half of my life. No longer The Man from UNCLE, but _The Man I Am Going to Drown In The Sea_.

I enjoy being retired. I finally have time to keep current with scientific journals and reread long neglected classics of fiction. I have several patents I rotate working on. I swim, I’m learning photography. The aforementioned man whom I love and will continue to love as I’m drowning him is with me and is relatively healthy. Aside from having every type of joint disorder possible for the human body, my retirement gift from my decades of association with THRUSH and its offspring, I, too, am healthy. Together we have enough savings from investments that we can live comfortably.

All would be well, except that Napoleon is adapting to retirement with the same grace that he accepted his security constraints as Number One.

“Hi, what’re you doing?”

“The same thing I was doing ten minutes ago, Napoleon, reading the newest IJQ.”

“Oh. How much longer are you going to read?”

“I’d like to finish this article.”

“Oh. Then what are you going to do?”

 _Find rocks to put in your pockets to weigh you down when I drown you in the Atlantic_. “Would you like to take the Pursang out?”

“Oh, I don’t want to bother you.”

 _That boat has already sailed, partner._ “I love sailing with you. And you’re not a bother. Come on, let’s go.”

I was not exposed to American classical music until I attended Cambridge, and even then, not very much. I’m still not sure how it occurred, but the first piece I heard in its entirety was _The Grand Canyon Suite_ by Grofe. Napoleon at the wheel of The Pursang is the living breathing embodiment of the _Suite_ to me. Even before I fell in love with him, I loved watching him sailing – his facial expression, the fire in his eyes that changes in intensity from a conflagration to banked, glowing embers, his stance as immovable as a redwood, yet as fluid as a reed. For as outstanding as he was in his performance as a field agent and as Number One Section One, Napoleon has always been and will always be at his most glorious to me when he is sailing.

Except that day.

“Are you feeling unwell, Napoleon?”

“I’m fine.”

“You are wonderful, but you are most assuredly not fine.” On that day, although he was at the helm of his beloved craft on his beloved Atlantic, Napoleon looked defeated… and for the first time to _me_ , old.

“It’s… nothing.”

“If you are feeling distressed, then it is not nothing. Let’s hove to over there for a while.”

“There’s rain coming.”

“Like we’ve never been drenched before.”

With a disturbing compliance and lack of enthusiasm, Napoleon brought The Pursang into the shelter of Cattail Cove.

“Now, my dearest partner, come sit next to me and please tell me what troubles you?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Napoleon moved to my side and with a sigh, heavily sat down.

“Illya, I know I’ve been driving you nuts –“

“For the past thirty one years.”

“—since we’ve retired. “

“Yes, you have.” With one finger I gently stroked the back of his hand that was tightly clutching his knee. I hoped to convey with my touch that although I had often been frustrated with his behavior, my love and like for him was not diminished.

“Illya…”

I sat in silence, continuing to stroke his hand while not breaking eye contact, giving him the time he needed to open his heart.

“Illya, I’m _scared_.”

I waited.

“You remember we both had to take physicals before we were officially retired?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I called in to talk with Stu a few weeks ago.”

Stu. Doctor. Called in. Physicals. Scared. _Scared? Oh, holy Peter._

“Napoleon?” I tried and failed to mask the abject fear in my voice. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“Huh?” He looked up quickly and obviously saw the terror in my eyes, because a small reassuring smile appeared. “Not in body, IK. Stand down.”

At this point, I was relieved, confused and irritated, in equal parts. “ _Please_ , Napoleon!”

“I called Stu to ask if he could help me understand why I feel so adrift. I think you’ve noticed I’m not adjusting to being retired as well as you have.”

“I have noticed.”

“Illya, I’ve lost _me_. I don’t know who I am anymore or what I’m supposed to do!”

I understood what Napoleon meant. When one has been a soldier or a spy for most of one’s life, essentially a public servant – albeit a public servant with enough firepower to level Mount Everest – to suddenly be without someone or something to fight for is bewildering. I still hadn’t figured out why I had taken to retirement with relative ease. But, that would rest for another day, because now, my most-assuredly better half was in need.

I respected Napoleon too much to immediately voice platitudes meant to reassure and to calm. Not one thing about Napoleon Solo had ever been easy, so finding a resolution to his floundering would not be fast coming.

Taking his hand in mind and squeezing, mindful of the soon-to-be fully arthritic joints, I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and stared across the bow at the Atlantic. “It’s hard, to remember the person who was before the soldier and spy came to be.”

Returning equal pressure to my hand, Napoleon let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t think he’s there anymore.”

“Oh, yes. Indeed, _he is_. I’ve loved him long enough to know he’s there. He may be buried under several decades of conflict and subterfuge, but he’s still alive and kicking.” I paused, considering my next words. “Maybe he’ll come out if you allow yourself to begin feeling your frustration rather than expending energy trying to deny it.”

The ensuing silence in response to my statement was broken by the rain that had been threatening.

“I have been at your side for all those decades of traveling the world, and now I’ll be there for the most important journey.”

“Journey, where?”

Leaning to kiss the tip of his nose, I whispered, “The journey to find _you_.”

…………………….

Life not being a perfectly scripted drama in three acts, we didn’t find the solution to Napoleon’s perceived loss of purpose immediately. Like our lives together, though, when we did find it, it was… unexpected.

A couple of weeks later, we sailed over to Little Cranberry for groceries and brunch. The plan had been breakfast and groceries, but Napoleon had woken up, shall we say, hungry for something other than buckwheat pancakes that morning.

The morning was warm enough to eat outside. As Napoleon did his starving lumberjack routine on a stack of pancakes, I was enjoying oatmeal with muesli and skimming the latest _Audubon Magazine_.

“So, IK, I was thinking –“

“You come anywhere near my ass for the next twelve hours and I will cement that thing of yours together between two bricks.”

“Sorry about that, partner mine. No, I was thinking that another generator would –“

The horrendous sound of an animal in pain shattered the peace of our morning. We both looked up and around and located the source of the cry. An obviously still-intoxicated man was repeatedly kicking a dog.

Part of me was astounded that Napoleon could still move that fast. He had the drunk on the ground before I reached the scene, which left me to attempt to care for the dog. For the very, very large, not exceptionally pleased to make my acquaintance dog.

“Napoleon, I haven’t tortured anyone for at least a month and you know how cranky that makes me”, I said, reverting to my stereotypical Russian assassin accent. “Allow me to take care of that animal while you take care of the dog.”

Quickly changing places, I picked up the drunk in one move, unfortunately dislocating his left shoulder in the process, while Napoleon crouched closed to the whimpering dog.

“That hurts, you bastard!”

“If you think that hurts, wait till you see the next act”, I sneered, affixing him with my should-have-been-patented cold and unblinking stare. “Napoleon, I’m going to take him over to Chet’s and –“

Turning my head, I was unprepared for the sight of that behemoth in the arms of my partner, who was sitting on the ground, cradling him and crooning. “You’re all right now, I have you. You’re safe. Nobody’s ever going to hurt you again. It’s okay now, Napoleon’s here.”

“Illya, after you get Chet to lock that piece of crap up, see if Doc Montgomery is open, would you?”

“Of course”

As I dragged said piece of crap to the sheriff’s office, I glanced back at Napoleon who was still holding and stroking that dog with the same tenderness he’d shown all those times he tended to me after being tortured. And, I thought, “Napoleon, I think you’ve found your way home.”

…………………..

 _Of course, it would have had to have been a Great Dane_.

Through some of the same Solo luck that accompanied Napoleon and I through the years on affairs, Proteus, as Napoleon for some unfathomable reason named him, escaped that beating with no broken bones or internal bleeding. Doctor Montgomery had confirmed, though, through x-rays that there were multiple healed fractures, indicating that the beating we’d observed had been far from the only one.

Proteus came to live with us on Bear Island. Soon, he had brothers and sisters to play with. Napoleon had researched and had learned that Great Danes were very often abused and abandoned, merely because they grew from cute puppies to very large…. _very large_ …dogs. Finding no meeting of the need in our part of Maine, he founded the Tio Alexander Great Dane Rescue. Part of his time was spent traveling to adopt abandoned Great Danes from certain death in overcrowded and underfunded animal control centers. Part of his time was spent placing the dogs in new loving vetted homes, after their physical and psychological wounds had been treated. And, part of his time was spent still driving me insane.

“Illya…”

“No.”

“Illya…”

“ _NAPOLEON_. I have just finished building the third enclosed dog run, which I began right after finishing the dormitory for the bitches, which I began immediately upon finishing the second dormitory for the boys. I am not a one-man US Corps of Engineers, you know?”

“I know. And, I also know that there are no dogs in the world who sleep more comfortably or play more safely than our babies because of everything that Papa has built for them.”

I knew I was being set up. And, I absolutely loved it.

“But…”

“But, what?”

“With you, there is always a ‘but’.”

“I was thinking that a stereo system in each of the dorms would help them to relax at night. And, televisions would be nice, too.”

From international espionage to canine parenting. My dearest had found his third calling in life, while I continued my only true calling, loving him.


End file.
